The medieval church here, roughly 22 metres long and just over 6 metres wide, has had its interior filled almost to capacity with field-clearance rubble, the accumulated spoil of generations of farmers tidying nearby land by pitching loose stone over the nearest available wall. The result is that access to approximately three quarters of the building's interior is now impossible. Only the eastern end remains open, and it is there, in the south-east corner, that two flat slabs in the ground mark the site of a burial vault, quietly set into the floor as though waiting for someone to notice.

The church sits within the western half of an early ecclesiastical enclosure, and the fabric of the building itself tells a layered story. It appears to have been built and altered in multiple phases over time, and the north wall shows one of the more telling anomalies: its lower courses are not bonded into the eastern gable wall, which extends northwards beyond it, suggesting the north wall was at some point rebuilt slightly inward from its original line. Two doorways can be traced in that same north wall, one blocked up at the western end, the other surviving only as an opening at the eastern. The windows have fared no better. The east gable has a robbed-out window, meaning the dressed stone was removed and reused elsewhere, and traces of two further windows remain in the south wall. The church is part of a broader complex at Roscam that includes a graveyard and a round tower, the latter a relatively rare form of early medieval Irish ecclesiastical architecture, built as a bell tower and place of refuge.

The rubble that fills the nave is not an act of deliberate destruction so much as a slow, practical accumulation, which makes it stranger in a way. Standing at the eastern end, looking westward along a floor that rises steadily toward a choked horizon of loose stone, the building communicates something about how ancient sites are eroded not by dramatic events but by incremental convenience.